


The Origins of All Poems

by psychedelia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Artificial Intelligence, Brain Surgery, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27229093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: The Magnus Institute is in dire need of technological upgrades; introducing The Archivist, an experimental specialty AI designed to make Head Archivist Jonathan Sim's life far, far easier. All it takes is a quick implant, and the two are bound together, allowing them to see, know, and dissect the Archives. Maybe now Jon can actually create a legible filing system off the back of the late Ms. Robinson's chaos.Martin Blackwood seems to be the only Assistant in the Archives that doesn't outright despise this new upgrade. And, well, how can he? The Archivist is nice. Creepy, sure, but-- He can't be all that bad, right?
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	The Origins of All Poems

**Author's Note:**

> Be me, obsessed with TMA and then get shown Red vs. Blue seasons 9 and 10 and have to really quickly make a bunch of brain wave associations with AI's. Anyways, this isn't REALLY a red vs blue au but it's kinda... Heavily inspired by that universe, hence............. Fragment AI's.
> 
> If you like this, let me know! Deciding how much more I want to write of this AU; I'm having fun so I'd like to do more but comments definitely help. 
> 
> Tags might change as I update. 
> 
> (And, as always, you can find me on [tumblr](https://whitmanic.tumblr.com).)

“Please state your designation for me,” Elias says, and the computer slowly comes to life, lethargically almost, and Elias would reprimand such calculated  _ slowness _ if he weren’t… In part, nervous himself. This is highly experimental. Moreso, even, than the ground-troop divisions. Than the previous attempts under the tutelage of other entities.  _ This  _ fragment is something new. Something dangerous. Something  _ big _ . 

And evidently, it has an attitude. 

“Archivist,” the AI says at length, and comes into view, black moonlit eyes blinking up at Elias in equal mixtures of derision, confusion, curiosity, and need. It’s a lot of emotions all at once. But, truthfully, it's a lot of _everything_ at once. It's just woken up, after all. What is it? Who is it? A designation? These things come freely to it, programmed responses that feel a balm to its existence, a hum in the back of its mind. There's two waves here-- three?--, the first of numbers and preordained responses and _code_ , simple and complex in its simplicity. The second something harder to quantify, harder to examine, something that, in the first few milliseconds of being awake, the Archivist can only muster up the thought processes to explain as _To Be_. The third... Well. That one is harder to define, for it is a roiling, green and red hotwire of emotions and urges and hunger the Archivist does not know the name for. Not yet. There might not be a name for such connection, but the momentary look of _fear_ that crosses Elias Bouchard's face satiates it, and the Archivist stares at him.

Elias might not have had a lot of, ahem, hands-on experience with the other fragments, made from other  _ things _ , with other  _ goals _ , but he’s done his research, and he’s seen enough, and the  _ filing _ capabilities of something like this is  _ tremendous _ and he just had to have it. Had to have his own. The Archivist is learning how to _be_ , right now, and Elias is learning how to _have it_. 

And even just looking into the dark eyes of the Archivist tells him this is something _special_.

Thank whatever’s out there that Peter Lukas has the funding capabilities to sugar his way into the pockets of the Director. 

“Very good,” Elias purrs, and the small visual holographic representation of his newest  _ darling _ tilts its head and parrots the smile blanketing Elias’ features, which just makes Elias’ smile widen all the more. 

“And with your designation, can you state your function?” 

The Archivist inclines its head and says, “As the Archivist, I have been tasked to aid in the assistance of Jonathan Sims, Head (sic) human Archivist of the Magnus Institute. My aims are to assist and formalize a legible filing system, both digital and biological, as well as any further aims put forth by the Magnus Institute’s principles.” He wrinkles his nose. He almost keeps this next part to himself. He _is_ a he, he supposes; if he is to be within the skin of Jonathan Sims, it suits his aims to follow suit in descriptors. At least for now. The _he_ is hardly important. What _is_ important is a secondary function, one that burns beneath the programming of his surface levels, the top of an iceberg. This is deeper, colder, darker, more intrinsic to his very fabric. To the parts that he cannot find are made of easily digestible artificialities.

“I am to See and be Seen by the Ceaseless Watcher.” 

Elias looks pleased as punch, almost nodding along to each pre-recorded line, until the last, that very  _ last _ little bit, and his expression falters, falters enough that the Archivist immediately saves that to file, this little  _ hiccup _ in Elias Bouchard’s own pre-recorded facial features. It might come in handy. He means nothing nefarious by it. He is merely  _ archiving _ . 

_ Archiving _ , but not privy to the little panic in Elias’ heart, as he says, “Ah. So you know of--” 

“It would be a fruitless task to have me so close to the beating soul of the thing we serve, and function properly, and do my  _ duties _ without realizing what we are serving,” The Archivist says, and tilts his head slightly in Elias’ direction, curiosity and playfulness glittering through his eyes. This presents a problem-- Elias did not put this information anywhere that the Archivist  _ should _ have. 

By all rights, only a few minutes into their conversation, he should pull the plug on the whole operation and get a new one. Ta-ta, malfunctioned, give it a whirl for a few more simulated decades until it  _ behaves _ . But sue Elias’ curiosity. 

“...I see,” Elias says, and though the Archivist does not pick up on the curiosity that just saved his fragile little life, he picks up on  _ something _ , and drops his gaze down to the device currently housing him. It’s small. He thinks perhaps he should be part of something larger, larger even than the coding that binds him. 

“I will try to See as well,” he says, and that earns him a quick, surprised smile that’s there and gone before one could fully utter the phrase ‘Elias smiled sincerely’. Elias hovers his finger over the device.

“Good. I should hope so. We begin testing tomorrow.” 

\----

“Your filing is largely and wholly ineffective,” The Archivist says, funneling himself through one of the cameras in the library. Mr. Bouchard has given him access to jump, and jump, and jump about to explore a few of the cameras and devices his program is plugged into, and along the way, it seems, he has stumbled into one of the other  _ assistants _ who work below his Body-To-Be. He isn’t supposed to be this far into the Archives. Or, well, Bouchard wanted him in areas that weren’t traversed. He’s near the offices, now. 

He attempts to make this exchange easier on the man and sends out a ping to the tablet in his hand, a request for a comms link. Not from a  _ person _ profile, oh, not yet. It’s a request to run a file--  _ Archivist.exe _ \-- 

Martin Blackwood jumps, swears, and stammers a load of, well, gibberish, and looks around for the source of the original voice, and then sees the request and jumps a little. He’s got quite the little tics of the face. The Archivist likes looking at those. A twitch here of fear, of unsure apprehension, and then a shaking finger to slide  _ yes _ on the request. 

The Archivist feels the request slide through and he flits from the camera to Martin’s tablet. Easier, this way. More advanced. He can even prop himself up, standing flat on the center of the tablet to give Martin a visualization of what he  _ is _ . 

And what he is, is a small, nondescript humanoid in nondescript clothes and nondescript features with--  _ Oh _ , those are some eyes, alright. Black pools with white irises. Martin squints. “Why are you-- Who are-- Y-you’re  _ really _ small.” 

“Hm,” The Archivist hums in displeasure. “I am well aware. I have already made arrangements to integrate within the body of your Head Archivist.” 

“With-- J-- What? You-- You’re the new filing system that, that Elias ordered? Um? I didn’t know it would  _ talk _ ?” 

“You dropped your files.” 

Martin blinks and looks down to the ground. Oh. Guess he did. Look at that. Papers and folders all over the floor and he didn’t even know because he was so startled. Wow. It’s going to be  _ really _ easy to hide how underqualified he is for this job when the security cameras can  _ talk  _ to him. Fuck. 

He speaks  _ more _ . Maybe he likes the sound of his own voice. All that monologuing. Did he say he was going to be inside  _ Jon _ ? Martin can-- Really, he can kind of see it. What with Jon’s doom and gloom lecturing. “I am experimental. I will be housed within your superior, with access to the Archives themselves.” 

“I-- Oh. Um--” That isn’t very legible. But he can try. And-- Oh, right, the files. He bends to start sorting them, and then gets embarrassed the longer he tries as the Archivist just stares at him, so he just shuffles them all in whatever order he can and shoves the folder shut, and the Archivist continues to stare. “Um-- Can I he--”

“That is very inefficient filing. Knowledge will be much more difficult to quickly find with such ludicrous and faulty organization.” 

Martin blinks. “So, what will-- I mean, Jon will be alright, right?”

“That does not matter. Mr. Bouchard believes it is more important that  _ I _ will be alright.” He pauses, and his little holographic form crouches to look at one of the papers Martin didn’t grab, still haphazardly on the floor. He squints at the letters, reading fast, and then he looks up at Martin and smiles. 

Martin is pretty sure he should hate this smile. He doesn’t. That worries him. Just a little. 

“Do you like spiders, Martin?” 

“I-- Huh? I mean. I suppose so, yeah. I guess.” 

Oh. Not all the letters on the floor were Archives files. Some were-- Were his own. His poetry. Martin's face blooms with color at the realization that not five minutes into talking to an AI, and he's read his _poetry_.

The Archivist’s smile grows wider. “I can keep your secret, if you keep mine.” 

“...Your…?”

“Mr. Bouchard did not want me wandering too far. Hm. One of your colleagues dropped their files when I said hello, as well. She said, ‘Oops.’ I believe the sentiment stands for my…  _ unintentional _ wandering.”

And that just leaves Martin with a lot of thoughts to ponder over. 

\----

Jon agrees to the whole business, because, well, when Elias puts it simply, it  _ does _ seem that the Archivist unit will largely benefit his ability to perform his job, and as he’s still trying to make up the rift between his abilities and the apparent legendary status that Gertrude Robinson put in to the facility, any little thing will help.

Even if that  _ thing _ is saying  _ yes _ to a highly experimental, potentially unstable AI that will be housed within the base of his skull, with full capabilities to purvey and surveillance the entirety of the Archives. It’s probably not a good thing that something deep within Jon is having a hard time seeing what’s wrong with this, even if outwardly, on the surface, in the depths of his belly, it sparks a paranoia that doesn’t feel  _ great. _

He gets to meet it, first. Elias calls him to his office and says “It’s ready” and Jon’s palms are sweaty before he arrives. After all, this isn’t just-- Just some computer system. Just a search engine and an easy to review filing system. From how it’s been explained, the only way to get something as adaptable as he’ll need in his position is to get something that  _ learns _ , and learns fast, and can understand the, ahem, human variability of fear, and the paranormal, and the  _ trauma _ that dwells in their research capabilities. And something that can learn  _ that _ is bound to have-- 

Elias tilts his head. “Sentience? Hm. I suppose that  _ is _ a philosophical question we could ask ourselves, but it’s rather difficult to  _ answer _ when it’s so young, isn’t it?” 

The small hologram almost seems to mimic Elias’ movement, its little head pointed upwards towards Jon, cocked to a curious angle. Jon leans down over the desk to peer at it, and its dark eyes, visible even through the soft glow of its interface, seem intrigued by him. “Mr. Bouchard,  _ he _ seems young to be at the head of your Archive.” 

That earns a splutter and a self-conscious laugh from Jon, who says, “I’m not  _ that _ young, and you’re-- You’re, what, a few days old?” 

“I suppose that depends on your definition of when I became  _ me _ ,” the AI responds, and then filters what can only be a small amused look towards Elias. “A philosophical question. I am young enough to have not had time to fully download and digest the full span of humanity’s philosophy. So perhaps very young. Or, perhaps very old. I doubt  _ you _ have read it all, either.” 

Elias gives Jon an inscrutable look. “The Archivist is… Chatty, so far. But, it doesn’t have a workload yet.” 

“...Right.” 

Jon has a lot of questions. A  _ lot _ . Elias nips them all in the butt with a terse, “We prep you for surgery tomorrow, unless you’re having second thoughts…?” It’s not spoken out loud, but the implication is obvious: if you say no, Jon, you will forfeit your position as Head Archivist. 

He swallows thickly, and pushes down his questions. Logically, he’ll be briefed after the surgery.  _ Logically _ , he’ll have the single perfect mechanism in the base of his brain stem at the command of his voice to answer any questions he could ever have again. And he needs this. It’s a break at--  _ Something _ . To get some organization done. To have some level of respect. Anything. He supposes some people must sacrifice a  _ little _ for perfect archival work. 

“N-No, Elias, no second thoughts. I’m ready.” 

Elias watches him for a long moment, his expression elated and dark and  _ hungry _ , and he nods. He dismisses The Archivist, who stares at Jon a moment longer before complying, and then Jon, with a short nod to the door. “I doubt you’ll regret your commitment, Jon.” 

\----

Jon wakes up and immediately rolls over on the cot he’s in to puke on the floor. He doesn’t realize it. What he realizes is-- 

There’s fingerprints on the sink and that violates at least several codes in regards to sanitation efforts, but truly, the sanitation and sterility of a given room in a land of faulty, biological humans is probably hovering at a safe and legal 99.9% and that .01% still exists, and he can count all the tiles in the room, and he knows their history and where they came from and who hewn the stones. It’s an old hospital, dated to the 1854, and each person who has ever walked these halls now walks his mind, chatter from bishops and nurses and doctors and patients and the  _ dead, dead, dead, dead, dead and suffering, remember they were suffering here _ . 

He tries to sit up and immediately curls over himself again, because there’s a figure in the door but he’s  _ glowing _ , glowing brightly with impossible colors that he shouldn’t be able to see, a cloud rising and falling with each breath. Jon doesn’t recognize him at first, the colors too bright, too thick, green and gold and red and the color of parchment. 

Jon doesn’t recognize him until he’s crouching down in front of him, watching Jon’s stomach heave in nausea that won’t abate, won’t abate, he can’t calm down, he can’t stop  _ seeing _ and  _ knowing _ and  _ digesting _ every new stimuli that enters his retina, and it feels like his brain is going to  _ pop _ , and-- 

“Hello, Archivist,” Elias says, and something twitches in Jon’s awareness, something outside him and within him all at once. He has no computer with him, nothing for the Archivist to manifest  _ through _ , but he has  _ Jon _ , and against his will, he feels his head snapping up to appraise Elias, pain still shooting through his awareness even as something else uses his biological processes. 

Jon blinks rapidly, painfully, and at least the thing doesn’t  _ maintain  _ control. He just hurts, and has a hard time maintaining any consistent gaze that isn’t staring at the floor with his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’d ask how you’re feeling, but it seems you’ve overwhelmed Jonathan  _ immediately _ , so if you could pull back just a little, we can continue to check in.” 

Inch by inch, the level of  _ stimuli _ slows. First the colors dull, and then the constant flood of dates and history and people and colors and renovations and permits and legalities and everything everything everything ease up, and from Jon’s throat, against his will, the Archivist commands his vocal cords and says, “My apologies. I was not aware that a biological frame would have such difficulties in maintaining even the most basic of information inputs.” He sounds  _ testy,  _ annoyed, and Jon only knows that because it’s the way  _ his _ voice wraps tightly when he’s annoyed, too.

His muscles being used against his will make him want to puke again, but there’s nothing, and instead he clamps his mouth shut and then drops open his jaw to hang loosely, and Elias steps closer to him, a hand clasped to his shoulder and his other hand moving around behind his neck to inspect the implant.

Jon tries to close his jaw before he begins drooling, and it’s that set of facts that makes him realize he’s still a little out of it. Pumped full of god-knows-what, considering he was technically  _ awake _ during the surgery. Can’t operate on the brain stem with someone deep in REM.

_ Is that why your thoughts are so disorganized? Intoxicants? _

Jon jerks in Elias’ grasp, and to the man’s credit, he leans back as though burned. Or, as though trying not to startle a scared and wounded animal. “Jon? Did that hurt?” 

He shakes his head. “N-- No. It just. It spoke to me.”

Elias hums, and then returns to his probing. The flesh is sore, in his neck, but it doesn’t  _ hurt _ , not anymore than any other healing wound would feel. Jon feels himself leaning forward, and a sick feeling-- of something foreign stuck to him, pressed to him, something that isn’t flesh living  _ inside _ him, threaten to tilt his brain into overdrive again, but somehow, the way Elias presses on the site calms him, and he feels his eyes slamming shut again, trying to ignore the rest of the stimulus around him. 

“It  _ will _ do that. I will leave you two to rest, for the time being.” Elias pulls away, and then pulls Jon up by the armpits to get him back into the hospital cot, and Jon just lets him, skin floating and eyes wailing and teeth chattering, and  _ oh _ he needs to not be conscious. 

_ I can assist with that _ , The Archivist whispers into the back of his brain, and they’re out like the flicking of a light switch.

\----

Tim walks out of Jon’s office and fields Martin this  _ look _ that says, ‘this is fucked’ as he walks lightly on his feet back to his desk. There’s a tight, pinched look to him, shoulders tense, and his eyes wander after landing on Martin, like he’s  _ looking _ for something. 

“How did it--” Martin starts. 

“Jon wants to see you,” Tim says stiffly, and his eyes land briefly on one of the surveillance cameras that litter the Archives. They’ve been updated, able to allow their new AI to flit between the shelves without Jon having to get up himself, for much quicker information gathering. Of  _ course _ , an initiative to digitally download what can be for Archiving is the most pressing and easiest way to accomplish this, but in a place like the Magnus Institute, not every document or story can be pressed neatly into a little file of  _ metadata _ . Not every digital reconstruction can accurately portray or archive the  _ feeling _ of these documents in your hands, or the metaphysical effects that they can inflict upon the reader and researcher. Hard to deal with 1’s and 0’s when the book in your hand is nothing but drooping cosmic remnants of other realities.

Not that Tim knows that. Or Martin. Or even Jon, yet.

Which begs the question, conscious of the  _ specifics _ of how eldritch their work really is or not, how can the thing in the base of Jon’s neck do just  _ that _ if it’s just an advanced computer? 

All that is held in Tim’s stare, but he’s tight in the jaw from feeling the new camera’s presence like an eye, so he doesn’t say any of it out loud, and instead of getting a nice  _ warning _ of what’s to come, Martin just nods stiffly and steps away from his desk and rubs the back of his neck to feel the smooth plane of skin and soft hair, and he wonders if Jon can ever do such a nervous tick without the reminder of never being alone again. 

Oh, that’s  _ stupid _ , Martin thinks, as he knocks on Jon’s door. Jon might be badly  _ communicative _ at times, but he isn’t all that incompetant, enough to get all nervous around  _ Martin _ of all people. 

He hears a humming noise from behind the door that Martin takes to be a welcome in, and he quickly slides in through the heavy door and the crack, letting it close quietly behind him. 

Jon’s rubbing the back of his neck, elbow almost all the way over his head with the angle at which he’s doing it. “Hello, Martin,” He says, and his voice is neutrally affected, flat, and for a moment, Martin thinks, oh god, they’ve removed his emotions, AI are  _ terrifying _ , but then he notices the pinch to Jon’s forehead and the tension in his jaw. Oh. Jon’s just putting it on. At least somewhat. He’s got to be. 

On the table is a tablet, and standing with his hands behind his back, is the small projection of The Archivist. He looks a little different from their first, brief meeting. A little more like Jon, now, like the code’s perception of itself has shifted now that it isn’t  _ merely _ an artificial construction housed in a computer. 

“Uh-- Hi, Jon. H-Hi, Archivist,” He stammers.

“A pleasure to speak again, Martin,” The Archivist begins. “Having access to Jonathan’s feelings and files and, more broadly speaking,  _ him _ , I can see that of the assistants, you’re the one he does no--” 

“Ijustwantedtoassureyou,” Jon says quickly, cutting the AI off at the breach, “that I have returned to post, and while I’m certain things will be-- Well, a little  _ different _ ,” His voice is almost a growl, and this too, is an affectation that Martin is surprised to realize is just such, “Hopefully they will run even smoother than Miss Robinson’s tenure over the Archives.” 

Martin jerks back a little, and would  _ love _ to pursue just what the fuck the Archivist is talking about, but he’s  _ good _ , and instead says, “I, erm-- I didn’t really, um, work with her? So I wouldn’t exactly, uh, exactly know how smooth the Archives were?” 

“Oh, yes, of, of course.” Jon says, and a brief grimace flashes over his face. 

“I am learning of embarrassment,” The Archivist says, and his little black eyes are squinted in mirth. Martin thinks that  _ maybe _ he might be a little bit of a dick. He also thinks that Jon Sims has got to be the bigger dick, here. 

Jon’s expression falls, and he does a poor job of hiding the color that crawls up his neck. The readjustment to his expression to seem  _ normal _ just makes him look  _ pissed _ . “Well. Unless you have questions. That’ll be, erm, all, Martin. Back to work and all that.”

“Uh, yeah, actually, I’ve got--” Jon sighs as Martin talks, “--A question? I-- Can you hear us? In the-- Well, all the cameras are all updated, and can I just, ‘Hullo, Archivist, a word about article blah blah?’ and you’ll hear it?” 

Jon blinks, and the Archivist perks up. “Yes. Yes, that is something I am authorized to attend to. I am an internal assistance tool to the Head Archivist, but I am an assistance tool to his biological assistants. If you have need for me, and there is a unit that I have access too-- be it one of the cameras, or your tablets-- I can come.” 

“ _ Sparingly _ , please,” Jon says. “It seems to pull my attention in half when he… Attends such conversations. At least for now.”

“Oh, is it-- I’m guessing there’s adjustments, and all?” Martin cocks his head. He’s genuinely curious. After all, his boss has a  _ robot _ in his head that has access to an entire building. Elias Bouchard has somehow functionally turned their boss into a  _ place _ . 

Jon slowly tilts his head, and Martin imagines him warring between the urge to kick Martin out and a desire to  _ talk _ . It’s probably the former. Why would Jon want to talk to him? His palms are sweaty, after all. 

“Ah, yes, it’s-- It took some adjusting to, yes. When I woke up this morning--” 

Martin can’t help it. His voice is a shriek. “You got out of surgery  _ this morning _ and you’re at your desk? Can I-- Are you-- Can I get you anything?” 

The Archivist laughs, and his voice is a little audio distortion, a jiggle that sounds  _ new _ and fresh and never before heard. Well. That certainly makes the whole scene a little  _ easier _ , if he’s made a creature laugh for the first time.

There's a clock ticking, and Martin didn't even notice it, but when it grows quiet for a moment too long, Jon twitches and jerks his attention towards it for a moment, and it seems that he's perspiring a little too. Oh. All this talk of surgery, and coming back to work early, and Jon's  _ sweating _ . 

"I-- I'm sure I'll be alright," Jon says, and drags his gaze back to Martin. Martin doesn't believe him, but Jon's so earnestly trying to lie that he isn't going to just, just, push him on the whole ordeal. A part of Martin, a very small part, is elated at how much he's learning about Jon in this moment; so many little twitches and anxieties that he normally keeps under well enough wraps to be all but invisible to him. 

Martin doesn't worry much about being caught in his credentials lie, anymore, but that doesn't mean he often feels  _ useful _ , and he's certain the Archivist will just make it easier for Jon to have even less patience. So he'll take his wins where he finds them, and his win is thus:

  1. Jonathan Sims sweats when he's nervous like any other man, and, 
  2. The Archivist seems to _like_ him. 



"It's mostly just a pressure headache, more than anything else," Jon is droning on, and Martin mods sympathetically, even though his attention is on the small hologram, which is looking right back at him with an inscrutable look on his face. "I get them all the time, AI or not, you see, and it's an easy fix usually. Just--" 

Martin tunes him out. Tim seemed disturbed by the AI. Uncomfortable.  _ Pissed.  _ Martin understands why, but he takes a certain comfort in something watching over them. When that someone isn't  _ just  _ the usual prying eyes of Elias. 

"Alright, w-well, let me know if there's anything I can do, I'll-- I'll be here?" 

Jon cuts himself off and hums in displeasure. Oh. Seems he wasn't finished talking. His finger drums against the wood grain in a horribly slow beat, and the Archivist laughs again. 

"I will See you, Martin," He says, and at least someone here seems to be having fun. Martin nods and hastily makes his exit in a reverse motion of how he came in, with an equal lack of grace and possibly an increase in the total metric of awkwardness.


End file.
